The Fowls of the Air

In thickets and copses and hedges
The land-birds choose them a home,
But high on the wild cliff ledges
Are the gray-winged folk of the foam.

Not theirs such voices as twitter
And sing to the loved in the nest,
For the heart of the Ocean is bitter,
And he drives all Song from his breast.

Yet dear are the crags of granite,
And sweet is the smell of the sea,
To the Crested Grebe and the Gannet,
And the mate of my soul, and me.
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